So Blind
by a d.a.n.c.e. of -passion
Summary: When Hermione falls for the one person she never expected to, what will she do? Especially when she knows her feelings will never be reciprocated. Or will they?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of the characters...Good ol' JK Rowling does.  
**A/N:** This is my first real fanfic (I started one but I never got around to finishing it. Who knows, if this goes well, maybe I _will _finish it.) I do intend on finishing this one, so reviews are more than welcome. I hope you enjoy my first chapter. It's shorter than I had hoped, but it's more of an introduction to the plot of the story, I guess. Or maybe I'm making up excuses for it's shortness. Who knows? Anyway, stop reading my rambling about the shortness of this chapter and READ IT! )

* * *

A cascade of brown curls had fallen upon the table as the most studious girl in her year, Hermione Granger, was doing just that- studying. Her head was resting on her left hand; her right hand was holding the page of the rather large potions book in place. And yet, despite this ominous task of writing a three foot paper on a potion of choice, she wasn't miserable. She was far from that. Rather, this lovely young lady was actually having a great time writing this composition. Of course, nobody else in their right mind would be having fun doing it, let alone be caught doing it at all; yes, this paper was due in two weeks. They had just gotten the assignment that day. So what? Doing her work when it was actually assigned was not only a form of _fun _for this rather odd teenager, but it left her with free time to study what she pleased instead of studying what she was forced to; or it gave her time to get in trouble with Harry and Ron if she was forced into it, per usual. But for now, she was happily enveloped in the peace and quiet of the library, her hand moving furiously as she created beautiful words on her parchment. And she sighed, a sigh of contentment. 

Of course, how could a sigh like that go unnoticed? It couldn't; especially not when Draco Malfoy was lurking behind the book cases, staring at this not-so-bushy haired teenager actually _enjoying _her work. Hatred was seeping out of his every pore. His brilliant grey eyes were hazed over; he was seeing red. He hated her, despised her, never wanted to see her again. Yet, he would find himself staring at her, despite the fact that he felt like ringing her neck at every moment of every day. It still wouldn't stop him from approaching her and talking to her, even if he was just belittling her and everything she actually _had _going for her. Who cares? The point was, that despite his obvious hatred, he continued to approach her and engage in a conversation, a battle of the wits. A form of masochism? Maybe. Or maybe not…

"Granger," he spat, meandering lazily over to where she was sitting. "Where'd the Weasel and Potter go? Not here to protect you anymore?"

Her eyes shot up at the sound of the ever-familiar slur belonging to Draco Malfoy. At once, the brilliant honey eyes which were previously shining in contentment clouded with the same hatred he was showing for her. Her eyes narrowed as he attempted to insult her, and failed miserably, at least in her opinion. She nearly laughed at how pathetic his metaphorical jab at her sounded, yet she kept her cool, only to let a self satisfied smirk cross her lips before she spoke.

"Malfoy," she answered, her voice smooth and quiet, brimming with hatred for this boy. "It doesn't matter where _Harry _and _Ron _are. Mind you, I'm surprised you don't have your body guards Crabbe and Goyle sandwiching you in between their rolls of fat. Unlike you, I don't need body guards to protect me, seeing as I have skills superior to the likes of you. And even if I did need body guards, I'd much rather have Harry and Ron than the morons you call friends."

Malfoy sneered at her, unwilling to admit that she had thrown his insult right back at him, making him seem like the complete idiot that he is. "At least my- oh, how did you put it? Body guards? –respect me enough as not to turn on me when I anger them with insults and orders. I mean really? How reliable is the weasel anyway?" His sneer never left his lips as his cold grey eyes narrowed, bearing into Hermione's like daggers. And then Malfoy moved closer to her, leaning against the table which her books were on. His hands rested against the edge of the table, his head turned towards her, looking down upon her as he was taught to- both literally and figuratively. His platinum blonde hair, which he once slicked back in a greasy mess, was hanging loosely by his eyes, framing his face in a way that only Malfoy could pull off. Hermione felt her breath catch, yet it was so subtle, she knew he hadn't noticed. She was momentarily taken aback by how downright sexy he looked.

_Malfoy can't look sexy_. Her thoughts were jumbled, floating around her head as if they were in a whirlpool. Shaking her head slightly, she pushed these thoughts to the back of her mind, an uncharacteristic scowl being precisely painted on her once beautiful features. Her thoughts only had made her hate him even more. "And at least my _friends _won't ditch me because they can smell bacon brewing in the air- or rather any food, or what can be even _considered _food. Oh wait- at least I _have _friends that are my friends because- oh yes –they actually like me as a person. Unlike you; your friends only pretend to like you because they fear your wrath, which, to put it bluntly, really isn't all that frightening."

The scowl on Hermione's face caused the smirk on Draco's to grow. He had completely ignored her last words in favor of his own. "Hey Mudblood," he said, his voice light, in an almost friendly manner. "Nice scowl; fit for a Slytherin. Too bad Slytherin would never have you- your blood is too tainted for a house of the highest prestige." With those words, Draco winked at her, knowing it would cause her blood to boil, and he sauntered out of the library, feeling completely satisfied with himself.

Meanwhile, Hermione was still sitting in the library, and indeed her blood was boiling. She could think of nothing that would give her more satisfaction than seeing him dead. Okay, maybe not dead; rather, with his vocal chords cut out. That would make life infinitely more enjoyable. Her breath was ragged, short, temperamental. Her eyes continued to burn with hatred for that slimy git. Her face was flushed a brilliant red. Her vision was blurry, her concentration lost. Tears stung the back of her eyes. She didn't want to let Malfoy's words get to her, yet she felt the urge to break down and cry. Before she knew it, a solitary tear dripped down her flushed cheeks, falling onto her black robes, becoming immediately lost, immediately forgotten, as did her degree of anger as her thoughts from before clouded her mind once again.

Could she really have thought such repulsive things? He's…He's Malfoy for Merlin's sake. Yet, she couldn't seem to get that picture of him scowling at her out of her mind. Then again, she can always think someone is good looking. It doesn't mean she has feelings for them. For heaven's sake, she had the _biggest _crush on Ron for the _longest _time, even before he turned remotely good looking. She would prefer personality and sincerity over looks any day. Yet, the thought of Malfoy being good looking sent a shiver of disgust down her spine. Despite her reasoning, she could not come to accept the ominous fact that she did indeed find Malfoy good looking. And yes, despite his newly acquired physique, he is still the same slimy git he had always been. Scratch that. He is ten times worse than he has ever been.

With that thought firmly implanted in her mind, Hermione went back to working on her essay, which was nearly done. But soon after she started her concluding paragraph, Harry and Ron rushed into the library, flushed from excitement and adrenaline. Hermione still had the remnants of the feud on her features- the redness from her nearly unshed tears, the blush of her cheeks, the slight cloudiness of her eyes –yet she was sure the boys wouldn't notice. They are boys after all, and quite oblivious ones at that. She knew she couldn't ignore them; they would _never _let her finish this paper. Instead, she finished her last sentence, turning to smile at her two best friends. Her gaze lingered on Ron, her past crush, her once-upon-a-time fairy tale, and realized that he was none of that, not anymore. When this thought crossed her mind, instead of picturing Ron as this person, the face of her worst nightmare flashed across her conscious mind. Draco Malfoy. And to think, she had to spend ever night with him in the confinements of the Head Students' common room. Even without knowing it, Malfoy had already begun to make her life a living nightmare. Or rather, even more of a nightmare than it already was.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Y'all know the drill- I don't own these characters, or the places, or really anything that seems familiar. JKR does.  
**A/N:** First of all, thank you for the people who reviewed my last chapter. It made me want to get this one up as quickly as possible (which may account for the fact that it's still kind of short and not as good as I had hoped). Reviews on this chapter would be lovely as well. I don't care if they're harsh or not; any comments will do. And if you have any ideas for where _you _want this story to go, I will be happy to listen. I have ideas, but I would love to hear other people's as well. I hope you enjoy this chapter. And don't forget to review it.

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While Hermione was inwardly cursing herself for thinking that the ferret was even remotely attractive, Draco was chuckling at his suave attempts at making her squirm, at making the seemingly non-existent tears form in her eyes. He always got pleasure out of tormenting Hermione. She was the hardest to torment. Yes, he could get a rise out of her with a mere glance, but he could never finish the fight without being slightly wounded by her remarks. It took him so much courage to finally admit that she has spunk, that she has courage, that she has wits. Yet, he couldn't deny that fact. She never failed to put up a good fight. She was a challenge, and Draco would _never _deny himself a challenge. Little did he know what trouble _that _would get him into in the near future.

* * *

Meanwhile, Hermione was walking with her two best friends back to the common room. It was hours before dinner, and the trio had very little to do. For once, they had no trouble to get it. Of course, this wasn't _Hermione's _common room that they were going to, but it was the Gryffindor common room which now belonged to merely Harry and Ron. The two boys were prattling on about Quidditch, a sport which Hermione despised, and she was lost in her own thoughts, a place where she would rather not be. Her honey eyes were shrouded in clouds, her lips pursed in a slightly troubled frown. She was barely paying attention to where she was walking, though she didn't need to. She knew the path from the library to the Gryffindor common room by heart; it was her most traveled path.

"'Mione," Ron said, as he realized his normally very chatty friend was no longer such a thing. "Earth to 'Mione," he said again when she didn't respond to her name the first time. And when she didn't respond the second time, his short-fuse temper flared. "Bloody hell 'Mione," he screamed, only to feel Harry's hand on his shoulder in an attempt thwart the fight which was bound to come. Of course, Ron ignored him and continued to scream at his very temperamental friend. "What is bloody wrong with you? What in Merlin's name are you ignoring me for now?"

Finally, she snapped back into reality, only to speak with harsher words than she meant, instantly regretting them as they left her mouth. "Not everything is about you Ronald. Maybe I just wasn't paying _attention _to your incessant blabbering about bloody Quidditch. Stop being so self-absorbed, for once in your life, and realize that there may be other reasons for why people do things aside from reasons revolving around you."

Ron looked taken aback, stuttering endlessly in an attempt to find words that matched her with venom and coldness. Finding himself devoid of these words, he just shut his mouth, vowing not to speak to Hermione ever again. Hermione on the other hand, was working up to courage to apologize to him. But if she did, he would ask what she was thinking about, and she couldn't outright lie to him, nor could she tell him that she was thinking about Malfoy, and _not _how much she hated him. So, apologizing was out of the question. Maybe Harry would make Ron apologize to her. That would make one aspect of her life slightly easier, seeing as Malfoy unconsciously made her life even that much harder. But, she couldn't follow them to the Gryffindor common room- not after the fight her and Ron just had.

"I think I'm going to go back to my dorm," she mumbled nearly incoherently, her eyes averted towards the ground. And before she could get a proper response, she left, turning the corner in a blinding daze.

"What is bloody wrong with her?" Ron muttered, as she rounded the corner, as they lost sight of her. And with a sigh of frustration, he turned to Harry for an answer, to which he replied, "I don't know mate. I just don't know."

* * *

Walking into the Head Students' common room, Hermione breathed a sigh of relief; she was finally alone. Or so she thought. As the portrait slammed shut, the only other occupant of this common room turned his platinum blonde head to meet the back of the one and only Hermione Granger. And he was appalled by the thoughts that ran through his head. _If she wasn't a buck-toothed mudblood, it would suffice to say that she is quite the looker._ He shook his head, as he yearned to throw an insult at her. This time, the insult throwing was _not _to see her squirm. On the contrary, he wanted to wash those toxic thoughts out of his mind, and the only way to do such a thing would be to throw insults at her, and hope he had some sort of advantage during this argument, knowing he wasn't in the mindset to win otherwise.

"You know, Granger. From your back, you have quite the potential. Too bad your ugly, buck-toothed face takes away all potential you ever even thought to have."

Hermione turned around, surprised by the other presence. At the sound of his voice, her eyes had clouded over in as much hate as she could muster. Not only did she hate him because of the constant tormenting, but now she had even more of a reason. With his comment, though, her face flushed, knowing that for the first time in six years, she would be throwing an insult that would be a complete fabrication of the truth, a complete lie.

"Well, at least I have potential," she stated coldly, her eyes bearing into his with a hatred he has never seen. "You said so yourself. You, on the other hand, have absolutely _nothing _going for you, and you never will. No glamour spell or potion could do _anything _to remedy the inherent _ugliness _which you so ungracefully possess."

She turned to walk away, not in the mood for another bloody fight, when he responded to her comment. If she hadn't turned away so quickly, she would have noticed the surprise which easily covered his features at the coldness of her words, she would have noticed the anger which flickered through his eyes when she dismembered the validity of his claim to fame; his looks.

"At least my looks allow me to have girls waiting on my every whim, beck, and call. Unlike you, who seems to only be sought attention by the Weasel, who is definitely _not _the definition of a good catch."

At the mention of Ron, her eyes grew wide, her anger only heightened. Little did he know that Hermione had sought after Ron for about five and a half years before giving him up, knowing he would never see her like she had once seen him. Last year, that comment would have given her hope; she would have found it difficult to fight back. But last year is not now. That comment had fueled her with anger, with hatred she had never felt before.

"At least Ron has some _merit_, unlike the sluts that follow you around. I mean really, have you ever even _looked _at Pansy Parkinson, in all of her pug-like glory. And her IQ? I would think it would be about, oh, zero, which is only one point less than yours, might I add."

And with that, she quickly turned around, her curls following her in a brilliant array of movements, as she made her way into her dorm, closing her door, locking it with a variety of spells that very few people could counter. At least she didn't have to worry about_ Malfoy _countering them, seeing as he probably didn't care, and probably took her retreat as a win. But she got the last words, and _that _is what mattered most.

* * *

While Hermione relished in her supposed win, Draco was cursing himself as Hermione had only moments before. How could those filthy, dirty thoughts even have crossed his mind? He must be under some spell. It was the only explanation for those unwanted thoughts. But Hermione hadn't taken a wand out to him; not today at least. Who else would be desperate enough to hex him into thinking these things? With that logic in place, he realized that he may not have been forced to think those thoughts at all. Those thoughts may have been completely voluntary. No. They _were _completely voluntary. And that scared him, more than he would like to admit. Then he realized that he generally didn't go after girls because he _liked _them. If they were good looking, he would chase them until he got what he wanted, and then he would let them go. The only thing is, he has never even _wanted _to chase a Gryffindor before, let alone the worst of them all; Hermione Granger. Wait. No. He didn't _want _to chase her. He didn't _want _to have her. What was he thinking? He must be going insane.

_But I can't argue with what I saw… Can I?_


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Harry Potter, I'd be...JK Rowling. I guess I'm out of luck...

**A/N**: First of all, I apologize for the wait. If any of you are into theater, and you know the meaning of Hell Week, well there was that, plus a bunch of other stuff, so I haven't had time to update. This chapter is a bit longer than the other two (thankfully), though it is a bit cliffy. I couldn't decide if I should add more to the chapter or make that the next chapter. Obviously I decided to make the next half of this chapter the next chapter, because having one uberly long chapter is weird. Sorry about this not having very much Hermione/Draco-ness in it. In the previous chapters I set up the hatred, and now the secret and the secret empathy. So, it'll happen in due time, most likely starting next chapter.

**A/N:** This has a hint of rape in it. The rape is in italics so if you don't want to read it, don't. Really, though, it doesn't actually mention the word rape, nor is it explicit in regards to body parts or anything like that. It's very vague, so yeah...

**A/N:** I would like a beta-reader...

Oh, yes. And please R&R. Reviews are greatly appreciated. I will love you dearly if you review it...

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Once Hermione had retreated to her room with the supposed victory hanging over her head, she crawled into her four poster bed, allowing her shoes to slip off as she maneuvered her small body to a sitting position. Pulling her feet onto the bed, she grabbed the novel which she had been reading. Yes, Hermione does focus much of her time on studying, but she _does _need a reprieve from that on occasion; hence, her addiction to novels. Of course, they are Muggle novels; in her opinion, Muggles have a much more sophisticated imagination and a greater understanding of human nature. The book in her hands at this moment was Sybil, a novel about a girl with 16 different personalities. She was about half way through, having started the book earlier in the day, and was immersed in some of the most repulsive things she has ever read. Sybil needed a reason to develop other personalities after all. This book, though, was more than a book. Some of the situations described in painful detail hit close to home for this seemingly perfect 17 year old girl. The book was interesting, yes, but reading it, especially parts like this, was a test of her strength. Hermione had to know that she was strong. She needed reassurance of it. To the surprise of most of the student body, Hermione doubts her strengths often, scared that the horrors of her home life are going to deteriorate her; though, she knows they can also make her stronger if she embraces them.

As she was reading, she found her eye-lids falling, heavy with sleep. Yet, she fought the sleep with all of her power, wanting to read more of this ever-changing, extremely intriguing book. But when one is falling asleep, they cannot fight it, especially when they truly want to fall into a world of nothingness. Yet, Hermione knew that her sleep would not be a dreamless one; rather, it would be one filled with nightmares and horrors. She needed to get over it though. One of the reasons she studies and barely sleeps is for that reason; she is fearful of what will happen to her in the world of her dreams, or rather, of her nightmares. Not having slept in days, she couldn't help it when her eyes closed and she lost touch with the world around her. Her breathing steadied; her breaths became deep and comfortable. That is, until her memories she had tried so hard to forget came rushing back in the form of a dream…

_She was lying in her bed, book in hand. Her back was flush against her headboard; her legs were bent slightly at the knee. She was clad in a pair of multi-colored, striped pajama pants and a black camisole. Her untamed hair remained just that- untamed –falling over her shoulders in a mass of curls. Her parents weren't home, and they weren't expected home for another hour or so. She had written to both Ron and Harry, telling them that she was fine, when in reality, she was far from it. She was scared, terrified of what was going to happen night after night. Thankfully, she had already come of age- she was 17 –which allowed her the privilege of using magic to cover the bruises which lined her body. She sighed, content in her loneliness- that is until the front door creaked opened and the lights turned on. _

_There was only one set of footsteps, heavy, labored, not dainty like those of her mother's. She knew her father had found a way to leave the honorary dinner so that he could come home to his 'lovely daughter'. Only Hermione knew the reason he wanted to do that. He wanted her, in more ways then one, in more ways than she would let him. The stairs creaked under his immense weight. Hermione only pretended to be reading; she couldn't concentrate when she knew what was to come of her. Her door opened. Her father was standing there, clad in his tuxedo, a hint of lust in his honey-brown eyes. She pulled her legs closer to her chest, trying not to look up at him. It worked until he made his way to her bed, crawling on it, crawling closer to her. Finally, she looked up; their matching eyes met. She whimpered with the knowledge of what was to come, surprised that such a feeble sound left her lips. _

_Her jaw was set, reluctant to oblige to what he wanted to do to her. She tried to stay strong; she tried to keep herself curled up. What stopped her was the murderous look in his eyes. He was whispering threats as he inched closer to her. She didn't want to lose her life, at least not in the hands of her father. She had survived the final battle with Voldemorte. She **had **to be able to survive life with her father. Her muscles reluctantly relaxed. She refused to look him in the eye. Only small whimpers escaped her lips as he touched her in placed she hadn't been touched by anyone else. She felt him undressing her. She couldn't fight back. He was at least two times her size. She had no chance of winning. All she could do was sit and wait for it to be over. _

_Apparently, her enthusiasm was menial, which angered her father. With a look of blood-lust in his eyes, he smacked her, threatening to do worse if she didn't show the enthusiasm he did. But she couldn't. She knew that. And he smacked her once again. This time she screamed out. His mouth cut off her scream, which was now a nearly silent protest. She tried to push him off of her as she tried to hold down the vomit which was quickly making its way up from her stomach. In response to her signs of insubordination, he grabbed her wrists and pinned them forcefully to the bed, holding them with one hand as the other roamed her body, taking off her pajama pants and her bikini-cut underwear. He then proceeded to take his pants off, spending no time asking her for anything. Instead, he got what he wanted, and he got it quickly. He shoved himself inside of her, as tears fell violently down her face, as her blood-curdling scream echoed through the otherwise empty suburban house…_

Little did she know, that same blood-curdling scream had echoed through the Heads' chambers, falling upon the ears of none other than Draco Malfoy. The urgency of the scream triggered memories of his own abuse from his filth of a father. For a moment, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him, trying to torture him with memories of the past. But then, as another scream fell upon his ears, he knew it wasn't his own memory playing tricks on him. Somebody else was screaming 'bloody murder', and the only other person in the vicinity was Granger. Slowly, he stood up, walking towards her door, where he heard whimpers choked by sobs. It had to be her. But why? He knew that he was invading her privacy, but his curiosity had gotten the best of him. No, he didn't go in there with the intention of comforting Granger, or even touching her. He just wanted to see what made her scream with such fright. She was strong, brave, stubborn, and not one to be found whimpering, screaming, sobbing.

Her door creaked opened, as his bleach-blonde head poked inside the room. And there was Hermione, her face tear stained, her eyes closed, her body thrashing around, as if she was trying to get somebody off of her. He didn't know what this was about, but he could only imagine. Without thinking, he had taken a few more steps into the room, keeping the door opened behind him. His mind was blank, though he found himself moving towards her bed. He knew he had to wake her, not only because her whimpering and screaming was bloody annoying, but also because he knew what it was like to relive memories best forgotten. He knew the pain they caused, and the residue they left behind. No, Malfoy was _not _doing something nice. He was _not _caring for Granger. He was just trying to stop the bloody noise. Or so he kept telling himself.

His hand fell upon her shoulder; an action which caused Hermione to thrash, attempting to rid herself of his touch. His short fuse temper flared, and he tried shaking her, only to be met with flailing arms and choking sobs. Finally, he pulled his wand out of his cloak, murmuring a spell bound to wake her up. Water poured out of his wand and onto her now soaked body. Her eyes shot opened, fear still apparent in her brilliant honey orbs. It took her a minute to gather her setting, and _that _was when her eyes fell upon Malfoy. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. She knew he wasn't the cause of her dreams, but she was still skeptical of his intentions. How much had he heard? What did he now know? How long would it take until the entire school knew, at least the basics? Would he even bother to tell? Hopefully not.

"_What _are you doing here?" she asked, her voice hoarse from screaming, thick with sleep, yet her unsaid threats were obvious, despite this. She looked him over, his wand at the ready. He looked quite guilty, as if he had just cast a spell. She hadn't noticed the water around her. It was normal for her to wake up soaked from sweat when she was having a nightmare like that. She knew he had woken her up, and for that, she was grateful; not that she would ever let him know that, of course. "And _why _are you still pointing that bloody wand at me. I'm up. You can leave."

Malfoy wasn't surprised at her coldness, her abruptness. He knew this wasn't something she had wanted anybody to see, and he was the _last_ person on that list. But he had seen it. The damage was done. The least he could do was try to explain himself. But in order to do that, he would have to seem at least slightly human. Even though he had fought alongside the Order during the final battle, he was still considered a greasy git with no heart and no respect for other people. He liked being that person. People feared him; they revered him. And, if he were to explain the reasons for waking her up, he would lose some of that, because he knew he could just mutter a silencing spell and her screams no longer would have penetrated the walls of her room.

"Your screams and whimpers were bloody annoying. What else did you expect me to do," he asked, knowing very well what was going to come out of her mouth next. Yet, he still stood there, his gaze fixed on her, challenging her to answer his question with the obvious answer.

"Well, you could have left the room, or even put a silencing charm on the room, seeing as you were so eager to use your want to stop the…screaming," she replied, her gaze falling as she spoke, though she quickly regained her composure, until it all but disappeared as she neared the end of her sentence. Why did _he _have to hear that? Why did _he _have to walk in on her? Why?

"Yes, well…" Malfoy said in response, unsure of how to answer this. He knew the truth was best suited for this situation; but when did a Malfoy tell the truth, especially when it would ruin their reputation. Never. And then it hit him. He knew what he was going to say. He also knew his hesitation would make his words lack the conviction they needed. He was going to try anyway, though he knew that with Hermione and her perceptiveness, she would catch him lying just one more time. "I wanted to see what you were bloody screaming about. Maybe it was something I could blackmail you with. Or maybe just spread it around the school. Hermione Granger, screaming and crying like a baby. She's really not as strong as you all think, is she?"

As he spoke, he locked eyes with her once again. His trademark smirk was sitting playfully upon his lips, his eyes challenging her. His hands fanned out in front of him as he spoke the words of the school, as if he was portraying a headline for the Daily Prophet. In any other situation, Hermione would have jumped on the glitches in his reasoning. But what he said had hit home. She grabbed her wand, her eyes filled with fire. She kneeled on her bed, stepping closer to him. Her wand was at the ready, nearly touching his nose. Her voice was low, nearly a growl. "If you _ever _tell _anybody _what you saw or heard, I will personally hex you into the next century with the intent to murder."

Malfoy surprisingly backed down, knowing quite well that she was serious about the threat. Instead, he tried a different tactic; something resembling the truth, but not quite. And in context, it would just be a way to make Hermione shut up and stop pointing that bloody wand at him. "Well, maybe it would help to talk to somebody. You wouldn't be so bloody angry all the time if you did," he muttered, as he turned to walk away, his steps deliberately slow, waiting for Hermione's reaction.

"And who should I talk to? Harry? Ron? I love them to death, but they're not nearly mature enough to handle what I would tell them. I have nobody to tell, and I'd much rather not tell anybody. I don't want their pity. It's much easier living without anybody knowing, and that means you as well. So _don't _try to figure it out, because if you do, you will not live to see the next day unless you perform an Unbreakable Vow not to tell. And even then, I wouldn't put it past you find a way around that…" Hermione found herself rambling, so she cut herself off, knowing that if she spoke anymore, she would let something slip, and she couldn't afford that. "Just get out and leave me alone. I hate you enough as it is; don't give me another reason to hate you even more."

Malfoy turned around to listen to what she had to say. When she was done speaking, he let his thoughts slip out of his mind, and into the open air to fall upon Hermione's ears. "Well, then try talking to someone who can handle it. Try talking to someone who will empathize instead of sympathize…" His words were soft, angry mumbles. His face turned a bright red as he realized what he just said. Quickly, he turned around, his black cloak fluttering behind him, and he left the room, closing the door behind him. As they both settled down, Hermione back in her bed, Draco on the couch in the common room, their thoughts were exactly the same:

_What the bloody hell was that?_


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** I know I haven't updated in almost a year, but life got in the way. I also lost my muse for this extremely quickly due to the extreme liberty I took in regards to the characters of both Draco and Hermione. I don't like what I did to Hermione in the last chapter, but since I started the story this way, I figured I may as well run with it. Instead of making this character IC Hermione, since it is extremely difficult to do due to the circumstances I stupidly put her in, I mixed the Hermione we know and love wiht a character I previously created. I know this isn't what you'd expect from a Hermione/Draco fic, and it's not even very good, but I felt the urge to write to relieve a bunch of stress from school and college apps and stuff, so here's the chapter. It's kinda short, and it leaves off in the middle of nowhere, but I am definetly planning on updating soon, because I desperately need to start writing again. It actually feels really good to start writing again. So _please_ ignore the fact that the characters aren't exactly as in character as they should be; pay more attention to the plot, the writing, the mistakes, and how in character Draco and Hermione are given the circumstances (yes, Draco is a softie, deal with it). I would really like reviews... I don't care if they're good or bad, I just want them. So _please _take the time to read and review. I will love you forever. 3

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Her back was flush against the headboard on her bed, her legs pulled protectively up to her chest. Her mind was reeling, spinning out of control, swirling, diving, tumbling into a brief oblivion. She couldn't think, or rather, she couldn't think coherently. Nothing made sense. Then again, nothing ever made sense. Her entire life was filled with the proverbial questions of _why _and _what if_. And her life was built around the void these unanswered questions left. She felt empty as she sat there, reflecting upon the words that continued to ring constantly in the recesses of her mind. _Well, then try talking to someone who can handle it. Try talking to someone who will empathize instead of sympathize. _How could _anyone _know how it felt to have to live in the desecrated, defamed, brutalized body that she lived in every day? How could _anyone_ know how it felt to live with the undying sense of insufficiency, of inadequacy? How could _anyone_ live with themselves day after day, month after month, year after year, if they have been through what she has been through? How could _anyone _live with the bruises, the harsh words, the pain, the torment? How could anyone empathize? And yet, even _that _wasn't the basis of the unsettling feeling which began to form, swirling and growing un-mercilessly in the pit of her stomach. It was that, despite the horrid, vile, sadistic creature that is Draco Malfoy, she would not wish that fate upon anyone, not even him. And yet, his words insinuated that he had an idea of what the constant torment, the constant pain, the constant memories could do to a person. He had an idea what they did to _her_. And _that _scared her.

It didn't scare her for the reasons one would expect. She wasn't frightened that Malfoy would exploit her weakness, pick at it until it was bruised and bloody, until she was reduced to a heaping pile of tears and regrets. She wasn't frightened that he would showcase her pain to the entire school. She was frightened _for_ him, not for what he would do to _her_. She was scared that he had to endure pain similar to hers; she was scared that he had to endure pain that was _worse_. And she couldn't live with those thoughts. She couldn't sit there idly, close to tears, with the knowledge that someone knew, firsthand, the pain which she constantly experiences. She wanted to get up, she wanted the courage to stand up and talk to him. She wanted to know that if she were to approach him, he wouldn't throw insults at her that threw her back in time, back to the summer, back to Christmas break, back to the seclusion, the fear, the loneliness, the undeniable _pain_ she felt when his hand would roam her body, when he would slap her, when he would hold her down so painfully that it left bruises for the next two weeks. She didn't want to hear it: any of it. She didn't want to have to deal with the pain his insults caused her; she didn't want to have to deal with once again looking at him, and, instead of seeing his piercing grey eyes and white blonde hair, seeing the salt and pepper hair and dark, menacing eyes characteristic of her father. She couldn't deal with it anymore. She just couldn't. And yet, if he threw insults at her, _per usual_, it would, obviously, be no different than normal. So, by speaking to him, she had nothing to lose. Right?

Hesitancy enveloped her as her legs stretched out to their full length on her bed, as they threw themselves over the side, crumpling her previously meticulous bed sheets in the process. Her breathing became shallow as her never-ceasing mind seemed bombarded with worst case scenarios. What was she thinking? He couldn't be sympathetic. Scratch that. He couldn't even be _apathetic_. Only antagonistic. Only sadistic. Only an uncaring, unfeeling, selfish, pain inflicting bastard. Yet, she would prefer him to her father any day. That was probably the only realistic thought which propelled her legs forward, which motivated her to move towards the door, which, with every step, seemed to be moving further and further away. And then her fingers latched on to the doorknob, yet she didn't turn it. She just stood there, as if it was a life or death situation. And, in a sense, it was. He offered to help her, he offered to be there for her, whether he meant to or not. She needed that. She needed someone besides the blank pages of her journal to confide in. She needed someone who would talk back, who would rub her back as she cried and screamed, as she relived the horrors of her past and attempted to put it behind her so that she could face the future. She just needed _someone_, someone who could understand. And although she knew Harry would understand, she didn't want to inflict that burden on him. He was dealing with so much; she didn't want to put the burden of her problems on his shoulders as well. She couldn't do that to him. So all she had was herself and her journal. And now, possibly, the most unlikely of suitors: Draco Malfoy.

Her tentative hand twisted the doorknob and allowed it to swing opened, unaware of the chance it just allowed Hermione to have, unaware that it just opened the door to something one could only describe as wonderful, wonderful and scary. It was then she realized what scared her the most about the upcoming encounter. It wasn't the fear of rejection; it wasn't the fear of insults and harsh words. Rather, it was the fact that she didn't know the outcome. She didn't have the safety and security that she had when writing in her journal. She couldn't predict how he was going to act, because his actions have been so unpredictable lately. And not knowing scared her. She prided herself on knowing so much, on being able to read people, on keeping everything safe and normal. Yet, this was so completely out of her comfort zone. All she wanted to do was run back into her room and shut her door before Malfoy saw her.

_Too late._

His cold, callous, slate grey eyes met her honey brown ones, shrouded in fear and sudden regret. She was frozen in place, unable to move, barely able to breathe, and even less able to think. And she waited. Although it was _her _idea to come out and speak to him, she was waiting for him to speak first. She was waiting for the acceptance she rarely received. She was waiting for a sincere smile, a kind word, an offering of help. She was waiting for something so un-Malofy-like, that she highly doubted it would ever happen. Suddenly, the doubt which was eating at the back of her mind became much more of a reality than the hope which deluded the negative thoughts which seemed to preach the truth. As suddenly as the negative thoughts began to bombard her mind and could her vision, she saw a smile settle on the lips of the one student she could easily say she hated. The smile was not one of malice or mockery, nor was it one of superiority or bloodthirsty intent. It was a sincere smile, an empathetic smile; it was the smile of someone who cared, not the smile of someone who wanted to inflict harm upon others. Relief flooded her like waves flood the shore at high tide. Her honey brown eyes seemed to glow with relief as her breathing returned to normal.

"I was wondering - " she began, her voice soft, hesitant, showing her unwanted fear of being hurt, of being rejected because of her past, because of her present, because of her obvious future. But she was cut off by the smooth, once irritating, now welcomed voice of Draco Malfoy, who, in the process of speaking, was slowly approaching her as if she was an animal about to pounce. But she was far from that. _Far _from it.

"I think I should explain…. Well…. I guess I _could_explain… well, maybe it would be _right _to explain what I meant. Yeah, I guess it would…" he began, his voice just as unsteady, just as unsure as hers was, not because he was scared to explain, but because he too was scared of being rejected for his attempts at showing his true self. He too wanted someone to confide in; yes, now was not the time, but if she trusted him with her secrets, he knew that he could trust her with his. So he bit back the comments which he was so used to making, the degrading, tear invoking, character defaming words which would previously slip unnoticed out of his thin, pink lips, and he made an attempt to explain his previous statement. He made an attempt to befriend someone who could actually understand the pain he feels day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year. He tried to befriend someone who could understand the person he is, not the person he tries to be.

_Well, then try talking to someone who can handle it. Try talking to someone who will empathize instead of sympathize. _

"I- I guess I was just trying to say that… that by the way you sounded when you were dreaming… you have had some experiences that… aren't very pleasant. And I guess I was trying to say that maybe… maybe I understand at least part of what you are going through. And maybe I can help. Yeah; I guess that _is _what I was trying to say…" His voice was unsteady, unsure. The olive branch has been offered. He was attempting to not only make up for the past six years of torment and harsh words, but he was also making an attempt to kindle a friendship that could possibly outlast any scorn they would receive from either house, from their friends, from their peers, and maybe even from their professors. And with a gracious smile, she accepted.

"Well… maybe … maybe you _can _help… maybe I would like you to help…." she replied, her response growing softer with each word, her cheeks tinged a slight pink as she allowed her chestnut brown locks to block they shyness which was creeping into her soft gaze. Her eyes were averted towards the ground as she waited for a response to her sudden and unlikely acceptance of his offer for help. It was then that she felt a soft hand brush against her burning cheeks, gently prodding her to look up at Draco – not Malfoy, Draco – instead of at the ground. The same hand softly brushed her fountain of curls behind her ear so that the uncharacteristic softness in his gaze could be received by this uncharacteristically weak, shy, and jaded Hermione Granger. His breath seemed to dance across her lips, though they weren't uncomfortably close; it just seemed that way.

"Well, then I guess I will just have to try," he replied, a soft smile playing on his lips where his usual smirk would be. His speech was quiet, spoken softly enough for the sound to float away as soon as it left his lips, but loudly enough for her to hear every word he said. Or maybe she felt it as his words danced across her slightly parted lips letter by letter. It was then, and only then, that he let his hand drop from her cheek, though, that he let her decide for herself what the next move would be. He wouldn't push anything. It was her story, and she would tell it in time. But until then, and even after, he would be there for her. He would always be there for her. At that moment, he knew that their past rivalry meant nothing; he knew that he found a kindred spirit in the very unlikely Miss Hermione Jean Granger.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Okay, well I'm back! At least I'm updating again (and it's not taking me nearly a year to do so). I know that with each chapter, Hermione and Draco become less in character, but it's just the way the story is bringing me. Hermione is becoming more like a character I have been developing for about two years now, which could be why I keep falling into that comfort zone. I'm not one to plan my stories out in advance; I just write what I feel like writing. That's also why this chapter may not fit cohesively with the previous chapter, but I tried. I also know this chapter doesn't show my writing skills very well (in other words, it sucks), but I decided to post it anyway, because right now, I don't think I'd come up with anything better. **Please read and review. I value reviews a lot, even if they are saying my work sucks completely. If you _are _going to completely bash what I wrote, please give me reasons though; just saying it sucks isn't acceptable. I want to improve my writing, and if you can give me critiques, I will love you forever. If you just want to say you really like the story I wouldn't mind either. D**

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed in the past. If you have reviewed, please keep the reviews coming. I will really appreciate it. D

Also, the big section (in the middle) in italics is one of Draco's flashbacks, incase it is unclear.

_If you recognize anything from the Harry Potter series, it obviously isn't mine. Of course, one can always wish..._

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The feel of his lean fingers caressing her face would be comforting to any other person; the feel of his breath dancing across her slightly parted lips would cause any other girl's heart to beat wildly in her chest from anticipation. Any other person would lean into his touch, especially after accepting his offer to help. Any other person would allow a soft sigh of contentment to leave her lips at the first sign of safety and comfort. Any other person would allow a soft smile to grace those same lips. Then again, any normal person would not have had this conversation at all. She is obviously not _any normal person_; she hasn't been normal for years. She will never be normal again. And that is why his uncharacteristic kindness was not met with the same response as it _would _have been had she been normal. Instead of feeling comfort by the delicate dance of his fingers against her soft skin, she seized up in fear. Flashes of memories carefully buried and locked away escaped as if they had not been imprisoned at all. A hand against her face had never been a product of love; it had been a punishment' it had been a harsh reminder of what she never had, of what she never _will _have. And he was no longer the boy trying to help her through her living hell; he was a manifestation of her father, haunting her both in her dreams and now in reality.

Despite her most fevered attempts at convincing herself of the reality of the situation, her fear began creeping from the pit of her stomach to the forefront of her eyes to the tips of her now shaking fingers. She couldn't stop a small whimper of fear from escaping her lips. She couldn't stop the formation of tears which glistened in the dimming light of the room. An involuntary step forward on his part with the intent to comfort was all it took for her to lose control. A quick step backwards sent her sprawling on the floor. The small semblance of control she had was all but lost. Her limbs were tangled in a hasty attempt to gain control of the situation, her vision blurry with the now falling tears. Her unfocused honey brown eyes never left his face. They seemed to be beseeching him not to hurt her. It was all she could do to protect herself; it was all she could _ever _do to protect herself.

Known for her rational, carefully planned actions, her sudden irrational behavior worried Draco. She never showed weakness; she never showed fear. Or maybe he just never cared enough to notice it. If he were to have paid attention, he would have seen that her biting words and harsh glares were merely a weak attempt to hide the ever present, albeit slightly irrational fear that he would turn on her just as her father had. Yet, he had never validated her fear. Before, he would never do anything like that because he would not wish that pain upon anyone. Now, though, he would never hurt her like that because, over the course of the past hour, he realized that he cares about her and would not only _never_ hurt her, but would do his best to protect her as well.

The distress in her average yet beautiful features ignited a yearning within him to hold her close and kiss away her worries. Who would have ever thought that a couple of hours ago, he hated her immensely? Evidently, understanding not only leads to acceptance, but can lead to a dramatically altered view of a person as well. He slowly stepped forwards as if he was approaching a fearful and injured animal; any sudden movements and it would no longer even think of accepting his help. His eyes were kind, his steps unthreatening. He knew, firsthand, how to deal with someone in this situation. He himself had been hurt beyond belief; but he has also been close to those who have not only been beaten, but raped as well. His father was not one for discretion; his activities were known to both Draco and his mother. And after his father left his "conquest" to recover or slowly die, Draco would sneak in and attempt to comfort the victim.

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"_Y-you're not going to h-hurt me too, are you?" she whispered, her bloody wisps of blonde hair falling in front of her piercing green eyes. Her body, restrained and mutilated involuntarily shook from the arbitrary use of the Cruciatus curse and a variety of other morally questionable curses primarily used for torture and to inflict mass amounts of pain._

_He slowly approached her as disgust and pity flashed across his ten year old features. His eyes roamed over her body, her boyish figure, her flat chest. She looked to be not much older than him. He stepped slowly in her direction; a burning desire to help her was pumped through his veins as his heart hammered in his chest._

"_N-no," he said quietly, sincerity evident in his eyes. And then a question he already knew the answer to spilled from his slightly parted lips. "Who did this to you?"_

_He knew it was his father, but he wished to hear another name fall from her bloody, chapped lips. He wanted to hold on to the idealized view of his father for as long as he possibly could. He wanted to hold on to the beliefs he grew up with instead of watching it all crash before his eyes as easily as a mirror falling upon cement._

"_A-a blonde man," she began, her voice soft, suppressing a whimper of fear which threatened to become known as he stepped forward in an attempt to comfort her. "He looked kind of like you, but older a-and taller. He had a cane and a f-funny wooden stick… t-that hurt a l-lot…"_

_The next steps he took towards someone he would normally and unflinchingly christen a Mudblood were swift and worried. When he finally reached her, he knelt down to her level in an attempt to see her pain and rid her of it. Fear palpably clouded the young girl's vision as she attempted to craw away. Her attempt was thwarted as her body began to involuntarily convulse once again. Almost immediately, Draco was at her side, his scrawny arms wrapping protectively around her body until her shaking subside dand only her breathtakingly morose tears remained._

_He never asked what happened and she never told. He just sat there, cradling her in silence until she calmed down tremendously. It was then that his father walked into the room, watching the couple with a look of betrayal and disgust. A harsh clearing of his throat was all it took for the perfect picture of carefully constructed comfort to tumble and smash into a million pieces._

"_What do you think you're doing?" he asked, demanding an answer immediately from the ten year old boy who was frozen in fear, whose eyes mirrored images of panic and treachery which he was always warned would spoil the Malfoy name._

"_N-nothing father," was Draco's reply, his voice shaking with fear and unreleased hatred. _

_His father's grey eyes seemed to be searching his son for signs of obvious betrayal. Draco kept trying to look away, knowing that his father was looking into his mind, but no matter how hard he tried he could not break the gaze. With a firm nod of his head, the older man calmly took out his wand and uttered those two irreversible words. "Avada Kedavra."_

_A burst of green light shot from the wand, illuminating the emerald green of the girl's frightened eyes. And then she was dead, limp and lifeless in his young arms. And he did nothing to stop her death; he did nothing to save her. And for __**that**__, he knew he would never forgive himself._

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He was still standing in front of her as this memory, and others similar to it, began flooding back into his memory. He was still offering her understanding and protection with kind eyes and an outstretched hand as he has done so many times in the past. He knew that he had to help her, comfort her, protect her, _save _her. He knew that he _wanted _to. It was now up to her to either accept the help she had previously accepted or deny him and his well intentioned altruism. Her long honey eyes, usually filled with wisdom and fire met his eyes, though this time they were filled with apprehension and fear, expelling softly shed tears. Inherently, she knew that he would no longer cause her harm; she attempted to shake the irrational fear which has held her prisoner for nearly a decade. And slowly, her rational side began to win out. She took his outstretched hand with an air of uneasiness but did not flinch as he pulled her into a comforting embrace.

The tears which left red, damp lines on her face were beginning to dry up as he rubbed comforting circles on her back, whispering quiet nothings in her ear to give her a sense of peace. His cheek was resting against the side of her head, her bushy, sweet smelling hair tickling his nose as he continued to whisper to her promises of today and hopes for tomorrow. He told her that he was planning on protecting her, that he was planning on saving her. He told her that as long as she was with him, she wouldn't be hurt. He didn't even know what truly happened to her; he could only speculate that she was either brutally beaten or raped. And he would protect her from either one in the future. He would protect her from any pain. He would be her guardian angel if he had to be. He knew he would do anything for her, and he continually reassured her of that as she consistently began to ease into his embrace, as she began to tacitly accept his help.

Her legs began to feel weak as she continued to stand there; she began to lean more heavily on him than she previously was. All she wanted to do was curl up in a ball and go to sleep; she hadn't slept well in weeks. Fear of her father had kept her from slipping into the blissful land of dreams, which, to her, haven't been blissful for nearly a decade. But in his arms, she felt that she could close her eyes and fall into her first dreamless sleep in her recent memories. She felt safe; she felt protected. She knew he would chase away her demons, her fears, her nightmares. She knew he would always be there for her as he promised. And she knew that she made a complete fool of herself, crying unrestrained into his shoulder. Her head left the soft fabric of his cloak as her red-rimmed, puffy eyes met his. A sheepish smile snuck onto her face and into her eyes as the previous comfort she felt became slightly awkward as her grasp on reality continued to grow exponentially.

"I'm sorry for crying on you," Hermione said shyly, her voice cracking with the previously shed tears. Her smile endeared him; the innocence and sheepishness of her smile made his heart speed up in his chest. If she were any other girl, he'd be attempting to woo her into his bed, figuratively of course. Despite popular belief, Draco Xavier Malfoy has never had sex and does not plan on having sex until he meets 'the one'. Instead of attempting to woo her, though, he just smiled softly at her, his eyes sparkling under the fading light of the room.

"It's fine," he said softly, leading her over to the couch which she had previously fallen on so that they could converse comfortably. He allowed her to sit and curl up in his arms which she did gratefully. A yawn escaped her beautiful, dainty lips; her eyes began to close unwillingly as she grew more comfortable on the couch and in his arms. And he noticed this. He wanted to ask her if she wanted to take a nap. He wanted to warn her that if she didn't show up for dinner her friends would wreak havoc to find her and not stop until they found out _why _she did not make it to dinner. Yet, she looked extremely peaceful as her eyes closed against her will. He knew that she hasn't slept in a while; he knew that she _needed _this sleep. So as she fell into a dreamless slumber, he didn't have the heart to wake her. And he watched her. He watched her as her chest rose and fell with each deep breath. He watched her as she snuggled closer to him. And some time after Hermione fell asleep in his arms, Draco felt himself drift off to sleep as well. And secretly, he wished to fall asleep in this position many more times in the near and distant future.


End file.
